


Kinesics

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A little bit cracky, Anal Sex, Awkward Sherlock, Bad Dirty Talk, Coitus Sherlock? Really?, Dirty Talk, Erotic use of poetry, Euphemisms, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock tries too hard, Top Sherlock, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinesics: (n) the study of body movements, gestures, facial expressions, etc., as a means of communication</p>
<p>*or* Five times Sherlock Holmes asks for sex, and one time he can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinesics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts).



> Holy shit, this took me forever. Poppy asked me for some Johnlock where Sherlock wants to get sexy but can't talk, so he has to figure out how to tell John what he wants without words. That was about four weeks ago... It took me a while to figure out the voice I wanted. I started and abandoned two other fics before thinking of this concept, which I then wrote in 24 hours. Go figure. All apologies, darling! I hope it's worth the wait!

Sherlock Holmes has a vocabulary second only to some world language scholars. He speaks four Latin based languages, knows two dialects of sign language, and can read and write in futhark with a bit of effort. His first words (‘Mum’, ‘mine’ and ‘no’, surprising no one) came at ten months and he was asking for things in full sentences by the time he was two. Debate team captain, philosophy minor, and winner of Lestrade’s joking ‘Biggest Mouth’ award, Sherlock has never had a problem with learning and using words. It’s finding the right ones he’s shit at.

John is a very sexual person. You can practically see it roll off him like the air shimmers over hot asphalt. Anyone who is attracted to masculinity notices John Watson the moment he walks into a room. Rationally, Sherlock knows it comes from years in the hyper-masculine environment of the military, not to mention the competitive nature of medical school. With his short stature and delicate features (Sherlock privately thinks of him as being very pretty), John would have had to develop a secure sense of self or he would never have made it. Irrationally, Sherlock finds it intimidating and difficult to keep up with. Now that their relationship has progressed to one that includes a sexual component and not just the maddening tension, John seems just as sure of himself as ever while Sherlock constantly flounders trying to communicate his desires. This is all still very new to him.

The first time Sherlock’s recently unleashed libido makes itself known they’re at home on a Sunday, without a case or shift at the surgery, doing the crossword together. After Sherlock jots in three clues without even bothering to read them aloud, John steals the paper and pencil and takes over writing duties. As they go on the clues get more and more challenging, and of course there are a few pop-culture references Sherlock has no hope of getting, for which John teases him mercilessly. They’re relaxed and laughing, still in their pajamas at 12:30, and Sherlock is surprised to be not-bored. It’s amazing. John is amazing.

John is looking down at the paper, rubber end of the pencil resting on his bottom lip and Sherlock is struck by a sense of undeniable want.

“John…”

He looks up and into Sherlock’s eyes, blond eyelashes catching the light from the window, and makes a little inquisitive noise.

“John, I, um. I would like, I think, to... “

John smiles. “Spit it out, love,” he says, not unkindly, but still jarring enough to make Sherlock straighten up and blurt out, “ amorous congress.”

“What? No, that’s too many letters.”

“No, I mean… That is to say that I would like. To… have it?”

John cocks his head to the left and looks bemusedly at Sherlock. “I don’t understand. You want to what?”

“To have, you know, knowledge of you.” Sherlock is blushing now. He can’t maintain eye contact. This is not at all how he imagined initiating sex would go.

“Is-- is that a euphemism for something?”

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes on a few more words before he finally chooses, “bedsport?”

John stares, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, before he laughs so hard he snorts.

Sherlock is not amused. He folds his arms over his chest and hunches his shoulders, making himself as small as he can in hopes of ducking his own embarrassment. John realizes quickly and stifles his laughter, reaching out to rub Sherlock’s biceps.

“Hey, I’m sorry. That wasn’t nice of me. I didn’t mean to laugh at you, it’s just, well, that’s very old fashioned phrasing. I haven’t heard that since my grandmother was alive.”

“Your grandmother spoke about bedsport in front of you?”

“She was from Scotland, and a more than a bit eccentric. It’s not important. I’m sorry I laughed, okay? I wasn’t trying to take the piss. Just surprised me a little.”

Shoulders softening, finally starting to relax again, Sherlock replies, “well, I’m new at this. I’ve never initiated sex before. I wasn’t sure how to proceed.”

“You don’t need to tip-toe around it, love. We’re both grown men here. If you want sex, all you have to do is ask for it.”

Tamping down on a slight twinge of anxiety, Sherlock says, “can we skip that this time? I don’t think I can try again.”

John smiles, bright as the sun, and cups his cheek. “Mmm. If there’s one thing I can promise you, you’ll never have to ask me twice.”

 

~*~

That first experience analyzed, extrapolated from, and filed away, it’s with great confidence that, during an adrenaline fueled post-case snog against the foyer wall at Baker Street, Sherlock pulls away and breathes into John’s mouth, “I wish to have coitus.” There’s a five second pause, then a sharp huff of breath against his lips and a tell-tale jerking in John’s abdominals. “Oh, for-- What now?”

“Nothing! I swear, nothing. I’m-- coitus? Really?”

“Yes. Coitus. Coition. Sexual intercourse. Shall I go on listing synonyms?” he huffs.

“No, I’ve got the idea now,” John says, grabbing Sherlock’s right hip and pulling him back in as he starts to lean away. The other hand wanders down sensuously to palm Sherlock’s half-hard cock. “I just needed a minute to consider the context.”

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter shut. “And?”

“And I think it would make more sense upstairs.”

Later, when they’re laying sweaty and exhausted in Sherlock’s bed, he tells John, “that was brilliant.”

“You were brilliant,” Johns replies, nuzzling into the back of his neck. “But your dirty talk could use some work.”

 

~*~

 

Sherlock Googles ‘dirty talk’.

The following day, John comes home from a trip to Tesco weighed down with plastic bags. He smiles at Sherlock as he walks into the kitchen, then deposits the bags on the table and starts unpacking all the items he just bought. Sherlock follows, stands at a casual distance, and begins, “Did you-” No, that’s not right. He clears his throat, sets his voice about half an octave higher and affects coy tone. “Did you bring me anything?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I had to go to another store, but I got the specific biscuits you asked me for. They’re in that bag. You could put them away for me, assuming you could be bothered to know where they belong.”

“No, I meant… Do you have anything _special_ for me? Something that I _need_? Or perhaps you could perform some manual task around the flat for me, for which I can _repay_ you?”

“What are you on about? Is something broken?”

Sherlock stamps his foot in frustration. He drops his voice back to it’s normal register and is perhaps a bit harsh when he informs John, “I’m talking dirty.”

John replies, flat and matter-of-fact, “no, you’re not.”

“Yes I am! I read many articles and watched several hours of pornographic clips that were tagged ‘dirty talk’ in order to figure out the formula. I set up the encounter, usually by implying some degree of power exchange between us. Then, as we begin to get closer and move into the foreplay stage I appeal to your ego by telling you how big your cock is and how much I want it. During the sex itself, it apparently becomes less important to follow a pattern and random expletives are acceptable; ‘fuck me’ seems to be a popular one. And, of course, everything culminates with some combination of ‘I’m coming’ and ‘I want your come’. It’s all a perfectly logical progression.”

John is staring at him from across the table. His pupils are blown wide and his right hand is resting on the table top so he can lean into it. He licks his lips.

“You’re aroused,” Sherlock says, please by both his ability to notice and the apparent success of his plan.

“I-- Just, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I’m not saying that dirty talk doesn’t do anything for me, or that I don’t like you watching porn; dirty talk can be hot, but yours still needs work, and you’re more than welcome to watch porn if you like it, but please don’t go looking for sex tips in it, ok? It’s not real. I want sex between us to be real. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nods. Of course he knew that the people performing in those videos were actors and that the sex he’d had in real life was nothing like what they were portraying on the screen, but he’d assumed the role play was part of the point. He’d thought John would just assume the accompanying role once he initiated. Apparently John doesn’t want to play a role. No matter.

“Good.” John nods, then licks his lips again and narrows his dark eyes at Sherlock. “Now say ‘fuck me’ again.”

~*~

Sherlock considers the idea of ‘real’ sex. More importantly, he considers what John would think of as ‘real’ sex. The key difference between any sex act performed for film and the similar things he and John engage in is regard for each other. He and John are relationship. They have affection and passion between them. There must be something fundamentally different about sex acts in the context of romantic love.

Sherlock Googles ‘romantic’. He’s much more discerning while sorting the results for relevance this time.

He prepares a meal for John, lays it out on newly purchased formal settings with a carefully selected bottle of wine, and is almost offended by the level of astonished enthusiasm he receives. After they’ve eaten, they take what remains of the wine in front of the fireplace. Sitting side by side, holding hands, John watches the fire and Sherlock watches John.

The firelight flows over him, further softening his smiling, open face. It’s reflection dances in his eyes and makes them seem to glow from within. He’s already a bit flushed from the wine and the heat is exacerbating it; he’s shining.

"Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance  
Of the wild-flowers in the morning,  
As their fragrance is at evening,  
In the Moon when leaves are falling.”

John looks over to him, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“When thou smilest, my beloved,  
Then my troubled heart is brightened,  
As in sunshine gleam the ripples  
That the cold wind makes in rivers.

Smiles the earth, and smile the waters,  
Smile the cloudless skies above us,  
But I lose the way of smiling  
When thou art no longer near me.”

Amusement is giving way to cautious ardor. He can tell John is holding back, working over the words, seeking out the subtext. Sherlock lowers his voice, let’s all the love and longing he has in his body out through his mouth and wills John to understand.

"Does not all the blood within me  
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee,  
As the springs to meet the sunshine,  
In the Moon when nights are brightest?

I myself, myself. Behold me.  
Blood of my beating heart, _behold me_.”

John crashes their mouths together. The kiss is deep and urgent, pregnant with emotion. They can’t maintain it for long before stopping to pant, forehead to forehead, both taking breaths straight from the other’s mouth.

“Don’t stop,” John begs.

Sherlock goes through two sonnets, a soliloquy, and most of a canto before they finally sleep.

~*~

Sherlock gets better with practice.

The next time John is working on his blog, picking away at the keyboard with two fingers like a child, smiling at his own jokes and looking pleased with himself, Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second guess himself, or euphemise, or play a role.

He simply says, “come to bed,” and John does.

 

~*~

John explains it twice, mistaking Sherlock’s half-stunned panic for confusion.

“It’s temporary, love, I promise. It’s not uncommon with these kinds of injuries. There’s no fractures or tearing around your larynx, so you’re not in any danger. When the swelling is gone your vocal cords will relax again and your voice will come back. It’ll only be two or three days. In the mean time, I got you this note pad so you can just write down whatever you need. The attending says we can go home now. Your pain meds should be kicking in any time and I’d like to get there before I have to carry you up the stairs over my good shoulder.”

Sherlock takes the yellow legal pad and pen John offers him. On the top line, in large blocky letters, he writes: BSL

“You know sign language?” he asks, a bit more incredulous than Sherlock thinks is warranted.

Nodding, Sherlock underlines it. Then writes: Certified interpreter.

“Wow. I had no idea. I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I don’t know any sign language. We’ll have to stick with the note pad.”

Sherlock shakes his head. He underlines that too, then gestures at John pointedly.

“Me? Oh, _for me_. No, that’s ridiculous. Interpreters are there for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing to communicate with hearing people. _You_ have a temporary condition because you got clotheslined by a murderer in a dark alley. We can’t take up NHS resources just so you can ask me to fetch your phone more efficiently. It’s only for a little while. You’ll figure out another way to communicate, genius.” John smiles at him and hands him his coat. He accepts it numbly. He’s always been able to rely on words. How will he express himself, even temporarily, without them?

When Sherlock wakes the following morning, he’s pleased to find he’s not in much pain. Quite a bit of the swelling has gone down and he can move his neck and swallow comfortably. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a soft rasp that doesn’t hurt, but also doesn’t sound like a word.

He wanders out, bare-chested, to find John at the kitchen table with tea, a small bowl of Greek yogurt, and a few pots of jam.

“Oh good, you’re up. Here, you should try to get some calories in you. I got the yogurt out because I thought it might be soothing for your throat. You don’t favor any of these jams more than the others so I got them all out so you could pick. If that doesn’t sound good I can make you some soft-scrambled eggs. I know you don’t like them too runny, but they have to be fluffy so they don’t irritate any areas there’s still swelling. I should rub some vitamin E gel on that, too. That’s a nasty bruise.” John gets up and comes a few steps to stand in front of Sherlock and brush his thumbs over the abused skin.

John has treated Sherlock’s cuts and bruises more than once, but this is the first real incident since they started their relationship. His usual professional demeanor is gone and he’s looking over Sherlock’s injury with unmasked sympathy. Sherlock winces at a twinge from a particularly tender spot and hurt flashes over John’s face as if he felt it too.

“Sorry, love,” he says, reverent.

Sherlock opens his mouth to tell John it’s fine, it’s all fine, beg him to keep touching and looking at Sherlock with that care in his eyes, but of course no sound comes out. He takes John’s smaller hands in his and kisses the knuckles. How can he communicate the warmth, the gratitude, _the want_?

He shuffles forward a bit, further into John’s space, aligning their bodies from slotted knees to firm chests. Allowing their hands to drop, he drops his shoulders as well, making his posture softer, more inviting, and bringing his face closer to John’s. His hands land lightly on John’s waist, while John’s stay in the same place, fingertips resting on Sherlock’s collar bones.

The eye contact is becoming intense. Sherlock can feel the cusp of something electric just within reach. Ecstatic desire is building in him; a desire to grab, and hold, and claim, and he tries to convey it to John through his gaze. John returns it and Sherlock’s hands squeeze reflexively. He lets them wander over the crest of hip bone and then down while he grinds their pelvises together. John sucks in a sharp breath. Understanding lights in his eyes and he says, “God, yes.”

He moves past Sherlock, linking their hands again on the way and towing him into the bedroom. Sherlock is pushed unceremoniously onto his back on the unmade bed and John strips off their pajamas and his tee shirt before climbing on as well. He straddles Sherlock’s waist and then stretches to reach the lube in the bedside table, showing off the muscle definition in his chest and stomach and bringing his scarred shoulder directly over Sherlock’s face. He licks at it and John laughs.

John pours out lube over his own fingers and reaches behind himself where Sherlock can’t see. He would whine at the loss if he could make sound. He can see the oddness of the first few moments of stretch on John’s face, but his smile returns quickly.

“Just a minute, love. It’s been awhile since we’ve done it like this.” John groans, long and low, while Sherlock looks on in awe.

When John decides he’s ready, he scoops up the lube again and pours some into his palm to apply to Sherlock’s aching cock. He strokes slowly over the whole length, moving the foreskin in his fist, like velvet over steel. The feeling makes Sherlock shiver from head to toe and clench his fists in the sheets. John lines himself up and Sherlock’s mouth falls open in a silent scream as he starts to sink down.

“Oh, fuck,” John says, voice breathy, almost a whisper. “Yes.” He starts to rock right away. His erection not having flagged in the slightest, he holds it loosely and lets the motions of his hips push it through his fingers. They’re short thrusts, and John doesn’t seem to care about finding his own prostate, but the drag of Sherlock’s cock and his fist around the crown of his own cock must be enough. “Oh, God, yes. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? I could tell. The look on your _face… Fuck._ ” John gasps. “Sorry, sweetheart, this won’t be long. I don’t have slow and teasing in me today. Move. Come for me.”

Sherlock lets go of the linens and grabs John’s thighs. He plants his feet on the bed and thrusts up with little, jerky movements. It’s totally without finesse, but it’s so, so good. He can feel it when John starts to come, but still enjoys hearing John gasp, “I’m coming, fuck, Sherlock, don’t stop.”

Nothing could possibly make him stop.

John holds himself up and takes Sherlock’s thrusts, fingers threaded through his own hair now. He’s so beautiful. Sherlock adores him. His jaw works of it’s own volition, trying to say it, but stilling when he starts to come. As the first bone-deep pulses of Sherlock’s orgasm are radiating through him, John sighs above him, “I love you, too,” and Sherlock realizes he never needed the words at all.

**Author's Note:**

> ‘Futhark’ is a proto-norse runic language from Scandinavia.
> 
> In the fourth scene Sherlock paraphrases from The Song of Hiawatha; XI. Hiawatha’s Wedding-Feast, by H.W. Longfellow. Longfellow isn't technically considered a Romantic (he was born a bit too late and, even worse, he’s American) but I've always thought that section was so beautiful and when I thought of John and Sherlock for this piece, I thought of it. I made a short list of other poems that might have fit but I liked this best. Hit me up if you want to talk erotic love poetry. 
> 
> As always, you can find me at call-me-yt.tumblr.com.


End file.
